


In You the Earth

by nicasio_silang



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, PWP, Sex Pollen, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-23 02:55:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2531486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicasio_silang/pseuds/nicasio_silang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If this was something separate from her, if she could put it down to an invasion or possession, then Abbie thinks that she could live with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In You the Earth

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the warnings and tags. The sex pollinated can only very dubiously give consent. 
> 
> Takes place somewhere in early S2.

It’s sweltering in the cabin. Abbie knows it’s her, not the November night with a storm blustering over the roof, not the half-collapsed fire in the hearth, not even the layers of clothing she has on that are getting tighter, getting heavier, but it feels like it must be all those things. Overstimulation. Hyper-awareness. Every nerve open like the face of a flower, every sensory input like the sun. It seemed different when it was happening to someone else. More external. But this, this is everywhere inside her. Her fingertips brush against each other and it’s almost too much. She hisses out between clenched teeth. She paces.

She can hear them through the door, or thinks she can. So much has become undifferentiated noise, subsumed into her own wild heartbeat that knocks at her ribs, that she can feel pulsing in her neck, under her nails. Wind slapping at the shutters, blood rushing through her veins, and voices, the two of them, voices outside.

“-some other solution.”

“There is _no time_. And what would you even suggest?”

“Someone, a professional.”

“Oh, so we pick up a sex worker who has no idea what they’re getting into? Who she doesn’t even know?”

“Not ideal, but I simply, I simply cannot-”

“Fuck you. Yeah, fuck you, pal. That’s my sister in there, and this is it, this is the how we fix her. You will get in there, and you will help her, or I swear this’ll be the last day you see of the 21st century.”

It’s ridiculous, it’s among the most ridiculous chapters in her ridiculous life, she should laugh. Her stomach clenches like she’s gonna laugh, but it feels like something else altogether. Her clothes are so tight, so heavy, they’re bending her knees. Just the jacket, she’ll just take off the jacket.

It goes flying across the room, knocks something off a shelf that clatters. Doesn’t even matter because this is so much better, she can breathe so much easier, there’s so much more air on her skin. Her skin, her own skin that she can smell, can smell the heat rising off her own skin as if she’s been running for miles. Her thin cotton t-shirt is soaked through across her collarbones, under her breasts, down the curve of her spine. The small weight of it pressing against her chest as she breathes is like a hand on her heart. 

Abbie knows how this goes and what this is. She’s seen the bodies flayed raw by the force of their own exertions, seen finger-length gouges in chests and thighs, she’s peeled back ragged lips to see the red-stained teeth. _Like a mania overcame them,_ she’d said at the time. _Something inhuman,_ said Crane. Wrong, both of them wrong. 

Her fists are clenching and unclenching at her sides. Her breath is coming in short, deep huffs and every one drives through her like a pillar. She can feel the arches of her feet, the skin of her eyelids, and she’s never felt more like a human animal. 

Strong, like she’s holding a gun. Scared, like the barrel is shaking. 

The door opens and he’s in her sights. And in that moment the humid haze over her mind clears just enough to know that it doesn’t matter what she wants, or who he is, or how much she’d try not to hurt him. 

“Get out,” she says. 

Crane closes the door and locks it. Stands with his back to it. He’s looking her in the eyes. His hands go up. He isn’t wearing his coat. Covered in an unspeakable mix of bodily effluence, she has a dim memory. The crime scene, the spore beneath the corpse’s ruined skin, the smell of it in her throat, Crane’s hands on her trying to help and searing her instead. 

“Abbie,” he says. 

He’s so slight without that coat. Slim waist, narrow hips. She could break him across her knee.

“Get out of here,” she says. Her boots are in her hands. She drops them on the floor.

“Were I to do that, you wouldn’t survive the hour.” 

His hands still up, palms out, calming an unbroken horse. One of the shivers taking her comes out a giggle. A little high and a bit cracked. Her shirt is in her hand; she uses it to wipe the sweat off her nape, then discards it. She hasn’t taken a step towards him, but the space between them contracts. The world slips from her, no matter how hard she tries to skitter after it. Abbie’s breath shakes in her throat. Her eyes are wet. Her legs are tense, her bones stoop towards the door, would have leaned towards any other human body in the room.

“I can’t,” she says. “I can’t control it.”

“Nobody could,” he says. 

Behind the fear there’s sheer kindness in his eyes, and it feels like an accusation. She looks at his neck instead. She takes a step and his adam’s apple leaps. Abbie feels herself sob.

“Those people,” she says.

“Had no-one to help them.”

“Not you,” she says. She’s unbuttoning her jeans. “Not like this, not us.” 

“I’m so sorry. Abbie, I’m so sorry.” Then he does the stupidest thing, the most foolhardy thing in his long history of foolish, suicidal choices. He holds out a hand to her and says, “I trust you to do whatever you need.”

He can’t possibly understand what he’s saying, what he’s agreeing to. She doesn’t even know, and she’s the one already salivating over the lurid images that flash behind her eyes. Crane suspended from the rafters by his wrists, toes just grazing the floor but not solidly enough to do him any good. Ribs heaving, the muscles of his stomach jumping, cock hard and leaking as she climbs on a chair, takes his face in her hands, and uses her teeth to shatter the bridge of that high, aristocratic nose. 

Abbie wants to warn him, but there’s nothing left. Three strides, and she’s on him. 

She vaults up and hits him with a knee to his stomach, he groans, she swallows it whole. Teeth on teeth, and the back of his skull rebounds off the door. It’s been half a moment and there’s already blood on her tongue. Abbie snaps her head back far enough to see red seeping from his split lip. Whatever she needs. She unclasps one hand from his shoulder and drags her palm across his mouth, smearing. He breathes out and she tastes copper-tinted air. He tries to meet her eyes; she won’t let it happen.

“Anything,” he says. 

She finally feels Crane’s hand spanning her back, holding her up. Five points of frisson and the heel of his palm. His other hand is ghosting around her temple, her jaw, fingers spidering with tension. Resting here, then there, dainty, gentle. His ribs are rising and falling like a bellows between her thighs. The fly of her jeans is tight against her crotch. She leans forward just a little and it hits her like a bludgeon. Her head drops to the cradle of his shoulder and a noise she’s never heard before rips out of her. 

If this was something separate from her, if she could put it down to an invasion or possession, then Abbie thinks that she could live with it. She could see how this would end, and how they could move past it. She could go somewhere else while it happened. 

But it’s her tearing at his shirt until it’s just rags around his wrists, her fingers kneading at his arms and sides, her hand around his throat, then away, then back tighter, her voice keening into his skin, her teeth catching on his collarbone then trailing down his chest, her hips rutting against him with staggering, embarrassing urgency. 

And it’s him finally palming her ass because she’s moving too much to hold onto otherwise, it’s his pupils blown wide as planets, his painted mouth muttering _anything, anything_ like he can’t stop. It’s the familiar smell of him, musk and cedarwood, made sharp with arousal. His skin that bruises so easily, so generously. 

He could stand still, let her break against him like a wave, but it’s them. The furious heat where the wet seam of her jeans hits his bared stomach. The moment when she needs to feel more, to press and press, and he knows somehow. Removes her bra and clutches her to him, seals them, lets her shake, lets her pull at his hair. 

She has an orgasm like that, just tight against him and shuddering from the pressure inside and out. An ephemeral thing, flitting over her then running ahead. The fever doesn’t lessen. 

“I need,” she says, but doesn’t know where it leads. 

She pushes away and lands on her feet. She’s stronger-- they should note that, they haven’t gotten to another victim in time to know that for certain, although the physical damage implied it. She should say something about it, but her skin is humming like a beetle’s wings. Where she’d meant to stand and shuck her jeans, instead she falls on her knees. 

Crane’s erection is pressing against the front of his trousers and Abbie, she can’t do anything else, she presses her face up against the long line of it and breathes in. Spice, salt, and sweat. She wants him in her mouth so badly that she can already feel it, like he’s already there, like she’s already pushing down a gag. Or like a memory, like she already know what it feels like. She already knows that she drew blood from him and it got him hard. She mouths him through the fabric; it stains with precum. 

“Good God.”

He tries to move, but she sinks her nails into two lines bisecting his hipbones. He outright convulses against her. Abbie feels his shock and his pain lance into her. The vice-grip he digs into her shoulder, the wet steam between her open mouth and his clothed cock, the trembling in his thighs when she runs her palms down them: she can feel her body reply. She wants to drive into his haunch like a butcher. Lord help her, she wants the meat of him.

“Clear the table,” she tells him, “and get some rope.”

 

 

The first victim was a college kid who went fishing in the river and hooked something that should have stayed drowned. He was found twenty feet from the road at the end of a trail of ripped clothes, blood, and fingernails. His face was a skeletal rictus, his pelvis a concave mess. He’d been alone.

Then the Medical Examiner’s assistant, and then her girlfriend. Their landlord. They’d all been alone, by chance or blessing. And now her. 

Abbie isn’t tall enough to lie across the full length of the table, and it wouldn’t be practical anyway, so her legs are bound to two table legs, and her wrists bound to each other, crossed over her stomach. Her head is thrown back, her hair curling and stuck to her cheek, her spine arched to the point of pain, sweat pooled in the cup of her throat, her arms straining, her thighs straining, Crane working two long fingers in and out of her methodically while soothing a hand over her hip. 

The noise of them is obscene. She’s soaking wet, he’s drenched to the wrist and panting like a dog. 

And she’s not even close to the peak she knows is there, leaning over her, threatening. The backs of her knees digging into the hard edge of the table, that helps. Crane’s bony knuckles hitting her swollen clit, that definitely helps. His gaze on her mouth, on her breasts, yeah, all of that, but it’s not nearly enough. 

She tries to say _harder, more_ , but it comes out something less than language. He gets the picture, somewhat, and adds a third finger. He presses his fingerprints against the inside of her so that they drag out roughly each time. It’s better. It isn’t enough. 

She’s got so little leverage like this, can barely rock her hips. Abbie swings her locked arms over her head and pushes down at him. He’s been so still, just using his hands, the one on her hip and the one in her pussy, not allowing or assuming anything else. It’s good, it’s fine, it’s a counterpoint to everything she’s raging to do-

-her fingers in his ass, his head yanked back by his hair, long back bowed and long throat bared so she can reach his windpipe, feel it struggle under her hand, so she can squeeze and squeeze and-

-but it might kill her. They don’t know if that’s how it works, but from the drum of her own pulse in her ears she’s willing to bet it’ll kill her. She needs sex and blood in equal measure, and this businesslike, metronomic fuck isn’t going to feed her.

She throws her head back against the table as hard as she can. A bright, heavy knock. Closer.

“Lieutenant!” 

“Just touch me.” It’s like his voice let hers loose. The tension her body can’t release runs out between her lips. “Touch me, Crane, Crane, fuck me, hurt me please.”

She doesn’t have to see his face to know what’s happening there. He pulls his fingers out of her and she sobs for the loss, her hips seek him out blindly.

“Abbie, you aren’t in your right mind. You can’t be sure…”

It’s a heroic effort at a sentence and a half while she writhes in her bonds and begs him to fuck her, his earnestness blunted somewhat by dragging his hand across his stomach and smearing his skin with her juices. He realizes what he’s doing and trails off. Abbie raises her head in time to see him slowly bring his knuckles to his open mouth. The cut on his lip stretches. 

“I need you to fuck me, I need you, I need you to hurt me. Please. Please, I need you to hurt me, I need it, please. Do you know what I’d do, Christ, Crane, what I’d do to you, if you don’t, if you don’t, please, please.” On and on, more than she meant to say.

She’s knows she’s babbling, but she can’t stop. She pulls against the knots at her ankles and wrists, she meets his eyes like she told herself she wouldn’t, and doesn’t see what she thought she would.

His jaw is taut, his teeth are bared. Behind his stare sits a desire as hard and ragged as the one that’s infected her. What he’ll have to live with. Far, far away she knows how he’ll hate himself for this, far away she knows she should feel complicit, ashamed. Right here, naked and on fire, she uses what’s in front of her.

Abbie says, “Hurt me.” 

He backhands her across the face.

Lightning. 

She surges off the table, she gasps for air, chants encouragement he doesn’t need as he’s got one hand braced beside her, the other shoving the unbuttoned front of his pants out of the way. His hips are higher than the tabletop so he hitches her up and forward, digs his fingers into the flesh of her ass. Abbie barely registers the sight of his cock- flushed red, as thick as the rest of him is slender- before he’s lining up and slamming into her with enough force to rattle her teeth.

She cries out. Can’t help it. Raps her tied fists down sharply, feels the skin of her knuckles abrade. The pace is punishing, his hipbones edged like knives cutting at the crook of her thighs, the angle taking him painfully deep. He’s pushing his fingertips into her muscle so hard that his blunted fingernails cut and pull. She’s so close, and she tells him so.

Crane, all civilized expression wiped from his features, bends down and sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of her side. 

Light behind her eyes and Abbie comes, then comes again right on its heels, curls from her shoulders to her toes. 

Another thing they’ll both have to remember: his mouth comes off her with a pop, he leans back, he slows down and watches. Her breasts swaying, her mouth open. Her legs strained wide, tendons in relief, her sex blushed dark and slick. Abbie can see the long moments Crane spends watching his cock slide into her, his pelvis rock against her, his cock slide out. 

But they’re just moments, then they’re gone. She says, “I want to touch you. Let me touch you.” 

In a better state of mind he’d notice the substitution of _want_ for _need_. He doesn’t. He thrusts in, settles there, and with a hand between her shoulders he lifts her up and kisses her. 

She cuts into his tongue with her teeth, the salt on his lips and the blood in her mouth tearing strength through her body. Her linked arms fall behind his head, her legs pull hard enough to loosen the ties around her ankles-- she kicks until the table legs break and she can lift up, dig her heels into his ass. Free, Abbie releases his mouth, pulls up and lets his cock slip out of her for the sheer sensation of closing her bare thighs around his waist. There’s so little to him. She could squeeze, and squeeze-

She feels one of his ribs snap just as he’s managed to turn them and get her back up against a wall. 

“Sweet _Christ_...”

Tears on his face. She chases them with her tongue and dilutes them with his blood. The thin skin under his eyes tastes like nothing else. Some quick maneuvering and he’s inside her again. They’re all elbows, hips, and teeth. All tussle and speed because there’s only so much he can take, but it’s got to be as much as she needs.

Something’s happening inside her chest. Abbie knows it’s the end the way she’d know if her body were hungry, or starving, or exhausted. All the heat and the want, all that sex and hunger, is compressing like the heart of a star between her lungs. She manages to say _something, something’s going to_ into his ear. Crane reaches between them and presses his thumb to her clit, contact more firm and direct than she’d normally tolerate, but it’s perfect now, everything works now as the feeling in her chest becomes the feeling in her stomach, her pussy, from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. The ropes around her wrists fray and split. Dimly she feels his pace stuttering against her, his face in the crook of her neck, her name in his voice, but it all matters so much less than the last cresting rush of power and lust that takes her. 

It ends like a switch has been flipped. The strength leaves her and she falls to her feet, then folds onto the floor. The world beyond her body rushes into her senses: ruined clothes here and there, blood on the wall, on the door, on the wrecked table, blood up and down Ichabod’s body.

He’s got one hand to hold himself up, the other wrapped protectively around his middle. His pants are still around his ankles. Bruises settling into the dips of him like puddles. She can’t tell what’s a gash and what are just the trails of her red fingers. There’s a bite at his clavicle that gapes, needs stitches. One of his knees is twitching convulsively. Abbie reaches out. The muscles of his thigh flutter under her hand.

She has an instinct to apologize and an instinct to cover herself. She ignores them both.

An empty interval of time later, he tries to bend down, but falters and grunts, clutching his side. After a brief struggle, he steps out of his pant legs. He clears his throat twice. She beats him to speaking.

“If someone else did this to you…” Abbie traces the space next to a jagged gash across his hip. “I’d kill them.”

Crane just keeps breathing, hitching on the inhale. Eventually he nods and starts to move towards the bathroom, keeping a hand on the wall for support.

“Do you want some help?” she says.

He pauses with his back to her. There’s a gouge in his shoulder in the shape of her thumb. He needs his ribs wrapped, and she’s not sure he can stand for much longer, certainly not in the shower.

“No. Thank you, but no, that’s not necessary.”

There’s a pounding on the door, Abbie jumps, and suddenly everything hurts. Her raw wrists, lips, ankles, her hips that ache to close. Her cheekbone is a dull, blooming pain, a black eye in the making. Jenny yells their names through the door.

“You’re sure?” Abbie asks him. She tries to stand and he flinches away.

“You should reassure your sister.” He limps a few steps. “We weren’t certain that this would affect a cure.”

“You weren’t…?”

There’s a sound like Jenny’s thrown her shoulder into the effort.

“If you could answer the door before she breaks it down, please.” Then he’s shut himself in the bathroom. 

Abbie calls to her sister, “I’m fine!” 

She searches for a blanket before opening the door.


End file.
